Out Of Tune
by ProneToRelapse
Summary: Jim tries to explain how his mind works. Sebastian tries to understand complex metaphors.


Sebastian never waits for Jim to come to bed. If he did, his sleep pattern would be even more fucked up than it already is. Jim can function on what seems like ten hours of sleep per week, which actually seems like a lot when said like that. But then, there are a hundred and sixty-eight hours in a week, which would mean that Jim is awake for one hundred and fifty-eight hours a week. Seb's done the maths.

As you may have noticed, Sebastian is quite literal.

So Seb never waits up for Jim. He sleeps when he can, when he's not holed up on a roof or in an empty room somewhere, waiting to take the near-impossible shots Jim expects him to. He'll go to bed when he's tired and, if he's lucky, he'll be just awake enough to feel Jim curl around him when he finally does come to bed.

And of course they share a bed now. It's just one of those things; Sebastian would call it a natural progression in a normal relationship. Then he would laugh quietly to himself because this is far from normal and what even _is_ a 'normal relationship'? Christ, it's been years since he's had one. He's pretty sure that what he and Jim have defies all parameters of 'normal' but he still loves the mad bastard, even with all his insane... insanity.

And with Jim around, Sebastian has honed the art of waking instantly, a talent already cultivated by his years in the army. Well, you do what you have to when your Boss/boyfriend, murderous, co-dependant, partly suicidal, genius flatmate is up at all sorts of ungodly ours with his chemistry set.

So Sebastian is used to... well, pretty much any facet of Jim's erratic behaviour. Though that doesn't necessarily mean he always knows how to deal with it.

The bed dips gently under the slightest additional weight and Sebastian cracks one eye open, careful not to let on that he's watching. Jim has settled on the edge of his side of the bed, wearing his suit trousers and no shirt. God, he has a _side of the bed_, now. How much more domestic can they get?

Sebastian subtly admires the contours of Jim's back, the curves of his shoulder blades and gentle bumps of his spine. Jim's skin is always pale and - though it's riddled with scars from stories Sebastian hasn't heard yet - he still thinks Jim's body is flawless.

With growing curiosity and a sense of distress, Seb watches as Jim's shoulders sag. Out of his suits, Jim doesn't cut nearly as sharp a figure as usual. He's softer, more delicate; his jagged lines are dulled by a sort of vulnerability that Sebastian both loves and hates in equal measure. It shows that Jim is human, as well as making him seem weaker.

Jim lowers his head into his hands, running long fingers through his dark hair, tugging at the strands in what seems to be frustration. A small sound - half a sigh, half a groan - comes from low in his throat, and even Sebastian's keen hearing almost misses it. He opens his other eye and watches Jim's back intently, frowning.

"It's rude to stare," Jim murmurs softly, his dulcet accent thick with weariness. He turns his head slightly to glance at Sebastian who averts his gaze to the mattress.

"You seem tense," Seb says, which isn't actually right, but he can't think of another word. Jim isn't tense right now, though he's always tense. He's always standing straight, head up, shoulders back. Sebastian has seen him around clients and in meetings. If they didn't live together, Seb would say he'd never seen Jim relaxed. But he's seen Jim in the morning - soft and kitten-gentle - and after a deep, slow fuck - boneless and incoherent. Both have a potent relaxing effect on Jim.

Right now Jim is slumped forward, looking more than a bit tired. He looks downright _exhausted_. The dark shadows under his eyes look scored into his skin. Sebastian wonders when Jim got so good at hiding this from him.

"I'm fine," Jim says. "As always. Don't worry about me, tiger."

As if that will make Seb stop worrying. It's a constant fear of his that he'll come home to find Jim's brains splattered all over the walls and a note will be left that will just say 'I got bored. x JM'

So Sebastian sits up and scoots forward so he's sitting with his chest pressed to Jim's back, his legs either side of the smaller man. He slips his arms around Jim's waist and presses a soft kiss to the juncture between his shoulder and neck. Jim sighs, but doesn't lean back against Sebastian. That's fine. Seb isn't planning on dragging Jim into bed and holding him down while he fucks him. That's not what Jim needs right now, and Sebastian isn't vain enough to think that it is.

"Tell me?" Sebastian asks softly, dropping more kisses to the back of Jim's neck, breathing in the heady scent that's concentrated in the hair at his nape. Jim smells of ink and earth, a harsh scent of chemicals that's made more pleasant by an undertone of the scent warm paper, tea and London. Seb breathes him in deeply, nuzzing into his neck.

Jim is quiet for a moment. Sebastian's request could apply to a number of things. It could mean 'tell me why you're tired,' 'tell me why you're coming to bed so early,' 'tell me what's on your mind,' 'tell me what you need.'

Jim isn't actually sure which request to focus on, so he tries to answer a variation of all of them. "Say you have a prized instrument," he says at last. His soft voice is all sharp T's and elongated A's. Sebastian hums for him to continue. "A finely tuned instrument, at that. Say a violin."

Sebastian hums again.

"A master keeps his violin in perfect condition; he treats the wood, he varnishes it. He keeps the strings keen and taught - in perfect tune."

Sebastian pauses his nuzzling to listen.

"And then there's the bow. The bowstrings are kept immaculate so that they can act in harmony with the violin. For how can a violin make music without it's beloved partnered bow, tiger? Can you answer me that?"

"You can pluck the strings with your fingers," Sebastian says quietly, tightening his own around Jim's hips and breathing warmly across Jim's skin.

The Irishman huffs a slight laugh. "Quite correct, tiger. But how can you make _true _music - symphonies and grand concertos - without a bow?"

"You can't."

"Exactly. And then, with such a prized instrument, even a change in _temperature _can alter it's fine, delicate tuning."

Sebastian pulls back slightly. "You're feeling hot?"

"...No."

"Cold?"

"No." Jim's tone communicates painfully clearly that Sebastian has missed the purpose of this metaphor entirely. He backtracks quickly.

"You... You're out of tune?" he asks. "You don't feel that you can function as well as you normally do right now?"

Jim breathes out, almost gasps a faint "yes." Sebastian tightens his grip around Jim's waist.

"Do you know how to fix it?" he questions. "Can you tune yourself again?"

"I know what I need," Jim murmurs quietly.

"What do you need?" Sebastian feels him lean back _ever so _slightly. As an answer, it's more than enough.

This time, Seb guides Jim back into the bed, pulling the covers up around them both. He spends the night curled protectively over Jim, hands framing his face. He's more than prepared to show Jim how much he wants to help.

Because even though he would never say it, leaning back was Jim's way of saying "you."


End file.
